dead men are heavier than broken hearts SYOC
by dieselfumes
Summary: Lying beneath our own exists an underworld of refugees from another world, the otherworldly dimension known as Illéa. destroyed by an unknown cataclysm. The Illéans still maintain some traditions - including that of the Selection, where their eleven noble families engage in an elaborately savage trial by combat to establish who will become their new king. 0/10, OPEN
1. Chapter 1

**ᏜჱⴀᏜ Ⴋჱꂴ ⴀฤჱ ꍓჱⴀჶอჱฤ Ꮰꍓⴀꂴ ꀥฤᎸฆჱꂴ ꍓჱⴀฤᏠᏍ**  
**dead men are heavier than broken hearts**

**_ꈍฤᎸꆹᎸᎨꆓჱ  
prologue_**

Tachibana Tokumei was celebrating. He had a beer in one hand, freshly dried blood on the tips of his fingers, and a cigarette clenched tightly between two knuckles, apparently utterly oblivious to the _No Smoking_ sign displayed prominently above his head in dull green neon. He still had his shoulders hunched, as though facing into a bracing wind; when the pretty bartender with the Clara Bow smile passed him, he gestured with two fingers and she went immediately to the taps to pour him another pint, her bright eyes watching him closely. She had golden eyes, he saw - was she a member of the Nemanjić clan, or was she from some minor family that just so happened to share some small memorable quirk? He imagined it had to help her earn her tips.

She slid him his beer and he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a roll of bills; the first two he peeled from the pile were red _dalasi _notes, taken from the Gambian mage he had defeated three days ago, the alchemist who had been strangled by shadows in his sleep. Below those were the dollars, slightly damp from the rain. He slid the bartender what he thought to be a reasonable price, and though she raised her eyebrows at what he supposed must represent a considerable bonus, she said nothing as she accepted it between two fingers and went to the till. Tokumei could tell that she was straining to stay casual as she said, quite calmly, "does this mean it's over, then?"

"It's over. For this year." He inspected his beer and watched the colour change, the pale brown slowly filtering down into an inky black. Flawlessly done, he thought. Staff at bars frequented by their sort always tended to come from families with some sort of magic in their lineage, but with the ability to express it only in the most petty of ways - a perpetually perfectly poured pint, change calculated instantly, the ability to drop a glass a thousand times without smashing it or hit the television in just the right way to keep the static at bay. If you didn't know any better, you might just think they were well-trained, or lucky. But Tokumei did know better. "But it's never really over."

The bartender said, "does that mean you're king, then?"

It did. Tokumei raised his cigarette to his lips; when he exhaled, it was through his teeth, pale purple smoke draining out into the air, the colour warped by the last remnants of magic that still clung to every inch of his flesh. Too much magic in too little time left indelible traces on him, like sweat after a workout - it stained the fabric of reality around him, almost without meaning to. He knew that he could take a bite out of the pint glass or open his own arteries and for this moment, at least, it would mean absolutely nothing. "It looks like that's the case." He wasn't sure he should believe it just yet. He didn't feel any different. If this was victory, then it was not, as his mother had so often warned him, a bitter taste. It was hollow. It was a mantle without weight.

The bartender had picked up a glass and was polishing it; Tokumei thought it was apparent that she was only doing so that it looked like she was staying busy. She was wearing a name tag that said SHANE, like she hadn't bothered to pick the right one out of the jar at the beginning of the day. "So," she said. "What's a king doing in a dive bar?"

"The ambiance," Tokumei replied. Outside, he knew that the fog, made thicker by its proximity to the Hudson, would have blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road would be soaked with rain, glittering under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at the door of the bar, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by swollen thunder crashing amongst the bruised clouds above. The evening lacked none of winter's rough poetry. Inside, the air was sodden with damp and a man was passed out in the corner booth. The broken jukebox by the door to the staff room was creaking out a scratchy approximation of some old Tramp song, something about smiling while your heart was breaking. That reminded Tokumei of an old Ray Chandler line: _dead men are heavier than broken hearts_.

"Ambiance," she repeated. "Yeah." She turned to the optics lining the back of the bar as Tokumei drained his pint, and set it aside with a grimace. He still wasn't used to American beer. It was vaguely prosaic, he thought.

He said, more to keep the silence at bay than out of any real interest, "so your family isn't Kurst." If it was, then she would have known that the Selection was over; if it was, she would have known that he had won; if it was, she might have tried to kill him on sight rather than serve him drinks. So. It wasn't really a question.

She shook her head. "We stay out of it." She was spinning a shot glass between her fingertips, one of the cheap plastic ones without a weighted bottom. "You think I'd be working in a place like this if I had a shot at the crown?" She made her choice, and went over to the vodka, and filled two shots, quickly, cleanly. "Here." She set one down in front of him, and held the other one up in front of herself. "On the house for our new king."

Tokumei had to smile as he picked it up. "A toast to me?"

She rolled her eyes. "You've been king for ten minutes."

"And I'm already doing a great job."

They touched the tips of the ponies to one another, and drained them in one movement. She didn't even bat an eye at the acrid burn, only touched the back of her hand to her lips and raised one eyebrow, and said, "god, I told Marcus to stop stocking the cheap stuff."

"I didn't realise Laos _made _vodka."

"I think there's a reason they're not known for it." She held out her hand for his jigger; he dropped it into her palm, and she said, "we forgot the toast."

"To me?"

"To you." She dropped the shot glasses into the sink. They did not break. "So, the Selection."

"What about it?"

"I've always wondered." She leaned against the back counter of the bar. "To win the Selection - you have to kill the others, right?"

"Not necessarily," Tokumei replied. "The word in the Codex is _defeat_. You need to defeat them. Not kill them." He did not see the point of mentioning that he had, in fact, killed all of the others.

"Oh," the bartender said. "That's a shame. I wish you'd told me that earlier."

He blanched, and stared at her. The shots. The beer? The Nemanjić family was known for their use of ricin - utterly tasteless, utterly odourless. And yet he felt fine... The shadows crept closer to the bartender, sharpened at the edges as though by a whetstone. "You mean...?"

Her face was split by a smile. "I'm kidding. Sorry. I've been told that I have a terrible sense of humour."

"Yeah," Tokumei said. The shadows receded. He exhaled. "I have to agree."

"Funny is overrated. Another beer?"

"Why not."

She slid one over to him. "You don't have a party to go to? A coronation?"

He inspected the beer. Another perfect pint. "Not tonight." He had too much thinking to do. It wasn't every day you got to make your own dearest wish come true.

"I'll rephrase. You don't have anything better to do?"

"If I did," the new king of Illéa said softly. "I would definitely not be here."

She pulled out two new jiggers from a box under the bar and said, "more shots?"

The jukebox spluttered and died; with a snap of her fingers, the bartender revived it with the casual ease of one accustomed to percussive maintenance. The man in the corner booth started to snore. Outside, the rain was falling like dead bullets on a New York that had, for once, been silenced; the blues of the city had gone gray and the grays had gone brown and the whole of the cold streets had been drenched in a deep, terrible amber, a harsh and putrid yellow colour that sent rainbows rippling across the puddles in which all the grime and the blood and the leftover fragments of magic had accumulated, like so many fallen autumn leaves.

* * *

**ꈈꄒꑟꇍ  
****THE ILLÉAN CODEX**

**ꉔꇁꎬꄀ  
****RULES OF THE SELECTION**

**፩ -**_ฤᎸⴥႰหꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜⴀⴀฆⴀჟჱᏠჱ _-  
**1.** The Selection shall be held every eleven years.

_**٢ -** __ⴚᎨჟჱᏜhฤⴀฆႰอႰႫႰႫⴀႰᏠᏍႰႫอⴀⴚႰฆꆓฤᏍᏠ _-  
**2.** The Selected shall be elected from the eleven Kurst families.

**৩ - **_ᏠᏍႰႫอⴀꃞⴀᏪhⴀฆⴀฆⴀⴚᎨჟჱᏜhฤⴀ _-  
**3.** Each family must provide one member of the Selected.

**༤**** \- **_ꃞⴀႰꂴⴀᏍꆹჟᏜꂴႰฆ ᏠႰ ꈍჟჱᏍჱหꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜⴀᏠᏍႰႫอⴀႰฤฤႰฆꆓฤᏍᏠอႰႫႰฆꆓᏠᏍჱჴⴀꈍⴀⴚⴀꆹᏠႰฤฤჱჶ _-  
**4.** Should the Kurst family in question prove to have no eligible heir to participate in the Selection, they may adopt, appoint or abduct a representative for this purpose.

_**৫ -** __หꆓꆹⴀꃞꆹᎸᏠჟჱᏠჱฤႰᏠᏍჱฤჯႰჯꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜჱฤჱჴⴀ_ -  
**5.** The victor of the Selection shall be King until the end of the following Selection.

**៦ -**_ᏠᏍჱฤᏪhⴀฆႰⴕႰหꆓꆹⴀꃞჱฤჱⴚႰꂴⴀႫⴀᏍႰ _-  
**6.** The King shall select the location of the Selection and appoint the haven.

**౭ -**_หꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜჟႰᏠᏍჱฤႰฆꈍჱฆⴀ _-  
**7.** During the Selection, the King shall act as referee and final adjudicator, acting without bias.

**八 -**_ꂴⴀⴥⴀฆꆓᏠᏠႰᏍⴀฆⴀჶჱჱᏠᏍⴀႰⴀหꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜჟႰ _-  
**8.** The use of magic to defeat your opponents in the Selection is permitted.

**૯ -**_หꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜⴀᏜჱꃞჱꍓⴚꀥอᏠჱฆ _-  
**9.** The Selection shall end with the last man standing.

_**᠐ -** __หꆓꆹⴀꃞⴀᏜჱⴀฆⴀꈍᎸ_ -  
**10\. **The end of the Selection shall be the close.

**፹ -**_ꆹⴀჱꀥⴀⴚႰฤჱႫⴀᏜⴀฤႰฆⴀⴚႰᎸᏍⴕhฤჱⴀჶჱᏠჱᏍႰฤᏍჱ _X  
**11\. **Schreave's Curse shall be imposed on the Selected if the Selection persists for longer than one hundred and eleven days.

_[ฤᎸฆꆓᏠꀥⴀჶอⴕฤჱ橘ᏍჱⴀᎨᎭꂴᏠᏍⴀฆᏪꍓⴀฆꃞꆓჶⴀꂴออႫⴀᏍ]  
_(The above translation was kindly provided by our esteemed Queen Shane Tachibana in the one hundredth and twenty second year of our Lamented Exile)

* * *

**There exists an underworld, lying just beneath our own, practitioners of magic who live in our society while maintaining their own secretive communities. Hundreds of years ago, they lived in a separate world known as Illéa, but an unknown cataclysmic event forced them to flee into our reality as refugees, where they still maintain some of their own traditions - a caste system, an enormously complicated language*, and, of course, the mastery of magic. Chief among these traditions is the ritual of the Selection. The Illéans have eleven noble or "Kurst" families, who each appoint an heir or a representative to participate in the Selection. Whoever wins will be appointed the King of Illéa (regardless of gender), and granted a single wish that, unlike normal magic, has absolutely no limitations. The Selection is a brutal tradition, but the magic which binds the eleven Kurst families means that they have no choice but to participate in it to ensure the safety of all Illéans.**

**The idea is that you, my readers, will submit the eleven Selected for this year's Selection, who will vie to become King - and may, in the process, find a way to unravel the entire ritual. The current king is Tokumei, our narrator in the above section, and he will serve as the judge and referee for the Selection, which takes place in the 1920s. Your characters may come from all over the world. Further explanations and rules are on my profile, please check them out or ask me if you have any questions! **

**The profile is on my bio! Please PM your characters, and please do let me know what you thought of this chapter!**

**[*I would like to thank the amazing Izar Ilunak for helping me to create the language in this story! She said she is happy to answer any further questions you may have about it. If you haven't checked it out already, please read her fantastic SYOC, "The Kingdom In Exile"!]**


	2. codex

**The Illéan Codex is the closest thing the Illéan people have to a Bible, or a Constitution. Written by their first king after their first Selection some thirteen hundred years ago, it contains many of the rules and customs which govern Illéan culture, as well as guidance for each aspect of the Selection. Translating it is something of a prestige occupation which is often taken up by the spouses of Kings and by other scholars in the field, as the Illéan language is intensely complicated and nuanced. I plan to intersperse with the story chapters excerpts of the translation of the Codex which will govern this Selection.**

* * *

**ꈈꄒꑟꇍ****: ꉔꇁꎬꄀ ****  
**_[CODEX ILLÉA:XHULASHADLI]_**  
**THE ILLÉAN CODEX: RULES OF THE SELECTION

**፩ ****-ฤ****ᎸⴥႰห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜⴀⴀฆ****ⴀჟჱᏠჱ -**  
_[sa: rokzi xhulashada akajete]_  
I. The Selection shall be held every eleven years.

**٢ ****\- ⴚᎨჟჱᏜhฤ****ⴀฆ****Ⴐอ****ႰႫႰႫⴀႰᏠᏍႰႫอ****ⴀⴚႰฆ****ꆓ****ฤ****ᏍᏠ -**  
_[er: zgjedhr akiyimi mai tsimyazikurst]_  
II**.** The Selected shall be elected from the eleven Kurst families.

**৩ ****\- ᏠᏍႰႫอ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏪhⴀฆ****ⴀฆ****ⴀⴚᎨჟჱᏜhฤ****ⴀ -**  
_[ve: tsimyasha whakaka zgjedhra]_  
III. Each family must provide one member of the Selected.

**༤ ****\- ꃞ****ⴀႰꂴ****ⴀᏍꆹ****ჟᏜꂴ****Ⴐฆ****ᏠႰꈍ****ჟჱᏍჱห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜⴀᏠᏍႰႫอ****ⴀႰฤฤ****Ⴐฆ****ꆓ****ฤ****ᏍᏠอ****ႰႫႰฆ****ꆓ****ᏠᏍჱჴⴀꈍ****ⴀⴚⴀꆹ****ᏠႰฤฤ****ჱჶ -**  
_[po: shai nasljdnik ti pjese xhulashada, tsimyairrikurst yimikutse qapazalti rrev]_  
IV. Should the Kurst family in question prove to have no eligible heir to participate in the Selection, they may adopt, appoint or abduct a representative for this purpose.

**৫ ****\- ห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞꆹ****ᎸᏠჟჱᏠჱฤ****ႰᏠᏍჱฤ****ჯႰჯꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜჱฤ****ჱჴⴀ -**  
[_qu - xhulashlot jeteri tser xi xulashadereqa_]  
V. The victor of the Selection shall be King until the end of the following Selection.

**៦ ****-ᏠᏍჱฤ****Ꮺhⴀฆ****ႰⴕႰห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ჱฤ****ჱⴚႰꂴ****ⴀႫⴀᏍႰ -**  
_[jhi__** \- **__tser whakici xhulasherez ina masi]_  
VI. The King shall select the location of the Selection and appoint the haven.

**౭ ****-****_ห_****_ꆓꆹ_****_ⴀꃞ_****_ⴀᏜჟႰᏠᏍჱฤ_****_Ⴐฆ_****_ꈍ_****_ჱฆ_****_ⴀ _****-**  
_[nr: xhulashadji tser ikpeka]_  
VII. During the Selection, the King shall act as referee and final adjudicator, acting without bias.

**八 ****-ꂴ****ⴀⴥⴀฆ****ꆓ****ᏠᏠႰᏍⴀฆ****ⴀჶჱჱᏠᏍⴀႰⴀห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜჟႰ -**  
_[ok: nakzakut ti sakave etsaia xhulashadji]_  
VIII. The use of magic to defeat your opponents in the Selection is permitted.

**૯ ****-ห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜⴀᏜჱꃞ****ჱꍓ****ⴚꀥ****อ****Ꮰჱฆ ****-**  
_[iu: xhulashadade sheh zbytek]_  
IX. The Selection shall end with the last man standing.

**᠐ ****\- ห****ꆓꆹ****ⴀꃞ****ⴀᏜჱⴀฆ****ⴀꈍ****Ꮈ -**  
_[kte: xhulashadeakapo]_  
X. The end of the Selection shall be the close of all business related to the Selection, without any feud or bad blood lingering thereafter.

**፹ ****-ꆹ****ⴀჱꀥ****ⴀⴚႰฤ****ჱႫⴀᏜⴀฤ****Ⴐฆ****ⴀⴚႰᎸᏍⴕhฤ****ჱⴀჶჱᏠჱᏍႰฤ****Ꮝჱ **  
_[zi: laebazire madarikazio schreave tesirse]_  
XI. Schreave's Curse shall be imposed on the Selected if the Selection persists for longer than one hundred and eleven days.

**[ⴀᏠⴀ - ฤ****Ꮈฆ****ꆓ****Ꮰꀥ****ⴀჶอ****ⴕฤ****ჱ橘****ᏍჱⴀᎨᎭꂴ****ᏠᏍⴀฆ****Ꮺꍓ****ⴀฆ****ꃞꆓ****ჶⴀꂴ****ออ****ႫⴀᏍ]**_  
[ata: rokutbaficre tachiseaghtsak whakshu vanii'mas]_  
(Please note,the above translation was kindly provided by our esteemed Queen Shane Tachibana in the one hundredth and twenty second year of our Lamented Exile)


End file.
